Chapter Two
Rocky
Inursed my beer at a corner table, keeping my back to the wall and my eyes on the target.
Purple hair. Black dress hugging curves that nobody fucking mentioned.
Combat boots completed her outfit. Casper “Ghost” Sullivan's adopted daughter looked like trouble wrapped in barbed wire, just like the Valentine's centerpieces scattered around the bar. Only way less tacky. And no. No way in fuck I was using “tacky” out loud to describe those fucking centerpieces. I also wanted to keep my balls intact. The old ladies got one night a year to have their way with the place. Everyone knew the women liked their revenge for all the testosterone floating around the place but we all smiled and allowed it. Why? Like I said. I’d like to keep my balls.
I'd been watching Wren for forty minutes, waiting for the right moment. My Copperheads vest was safely tucked in my saddlebag outside, replaced by a plain leather jacket that told these bikers exactly nothing about who I really was. Of course, the vest didn’t represent who I really was either.
There was a means to this end and this girl could be my only safeguard if things went to shit.
The Valentine's Ball bullshit worked in my favor. Neutral territory meant clubs from across three counties packed into Outlaw's Rest without starting shit, if you could believe it. Everyone playing nice for one Goddamn night, all to give the old ladies their due. Yeah. I could respect that.
None of the Copperheads were here. Not only would they never do anything to please their women, they were more a bunch of thugs than outlaw bikers. They had no purpose other than hurting people and any money they made came from doing some nasty shit to people in desperate situations.
I took another pull of my beer, grimacing at the watered-down taste.
The place reeked of cigarettes and weed, red and black streamers hanging from the ceiling like some high school dance in hell.
Hearts with MC patches mounted inside them lined the walls in a weird mix of outlaw culture and Valentine's kitsch that somehow worked. Sort of.
Through the haze of smoke, I watched Wren knock back another whiskey.
That made three by my count. Her gaze swept the room occasionally, missing nothing.
There was calculation behind those glances that reminded me of her old man.
Ghost hadn't gotten to be VP of Bound in Blood by being stupid, and apparently his kid had inherited his watchfulness. Also, there was no way Ghost didn’t teach the girl Survival 101 about living in an active MC.
The club file on her was thin compared to most of the Bound in Blood profiles.
Twenty-two years old. Adopted by Ghost five years back under circumstances no one seemed clear on.
Rumors about Ghost killing some guys over her, but nothing concrete.
Incredibly mechanically inclined. Quick temper.
Fiercely loyal to Ghost and by extension, Bound in Blood.
The one photo we had didn't do her justice.
Hadn't shown how she seemed both completely at ease and perpetually ready to throw a punch.
A prospect approached her, all nervous energy and obvious attraction.
I watched her cut him down with a few words, sending him scurrying off toward the bar as his brothers hooted with laughter.
Then she waved the bartender to her, said something and put down a bill.
She jerked her head in the kid’s direction and the bartender grinned.
He poured a double shot of Jack and handed it to the kid, nodding in Wren’s direction and speaking to the prospect.
The kid deflated but grinned up at the guy.
He found Wren’s gaze and lifted his glass to her in salute.
Wren acknowledged him before downing her own whisky.
Interesting. Not cruel then, just establishing boundaries.
"Another round?" A waitress with weathered skin and a Shadow Wolves patch on her vest appeared at my table.
"I'm good." I flashed a smile, the kind that suggested I might want to talk more later but was busy now. She bumped my arm with her shoulder and winked before moving on.
Wren had migrated toward a group of women, old ladies from various clubs from the look of their patches. She smiled and talked easily with them, but I caught the slight stiffness in her posture, the way she kept looking around the room. Restless. Looking for something.
Our gazes met across the bar. I didn't look away.
Neither did she. This wasn't in the plan.
Seducing this girl was out of the question, though I had to wonder which of us would be seducing.
When she deliberately turned her back, I allowed myself a small grin.
Message received. She wasn't intimidated, which made things more interesting.
Also made my cock stand up and take notice. Literally.
"That's Ghost's kid you're eyeing." The voice came from a nearby table where two Bound in Blood members played cards. The speaker hadn't looked up from his hand.
"Just looking around," I replied easily.
"Look somewhere else." Still studying his cards, voice casual but the threat unmistakable.
I nodded and shifted my gaze, noting that Wren had moved to the pool tables now. The protective comment confirmed what the file suggested. Wren was valued by the club. Protected. Which made my job trickier.
Vittorio Luca had been specific when he told me to make a tie with Wren.
I wasn’t supposed to get her to fall for me or anything, and I damned sure wasn’t supposed to fuck her, but I needed to make her see me as a friend she wanted to help.
Vittorio said that, while Wren didn’t warm up to people quickly, once she formed an alliance with that person, it was for life.
Of course, if that person betrayed her, she’d likely kill him, but she might be my only way of getting word out about the trail I was following.
And she might be the only hope I had of making it out alive.
Because, where Wren went, the whole of Bound in Blood would follow to protect her.
Vittorio Luca didn’t like human trafficking in his territory.
My job was to infiltrate the Copperheads and find every thread of their operation from start to finish.
The first part had been easy. Finding the ultimate buyers proved more difficult.
I’d only managed to follow the trail two steps up in the process before everything dissipated.
I rubbed my thumb over my fingers, feeling the permanent grease stains ground into my skin.
My cover as a mechanic wasn't complete bullshit.
I'd worked on bikes since I was fourteen, stripping engines down to nothing and building them back up better.
The skills had served me well in establishing credibility.
Wren was alone again, standing at the bar, water glass in hand now. Smart move after three whiskeys. Her fingers tapped restlessly against the bar top, and I found myself tracking the rhythm. Not nervous tapping. Impatient. She checked her phone briefly, frowned, then pocketed it.
An older Bound in Blood member approached her, and she visibly relaxed. Their conversation seemed easy, familiar. He glanced in my direction once, and I casually shifted my attention elsewhere while keeping them in my peripheral vision. When the old-timer wandered off, Wren's gaze found me again.
This time, she lifted her water glass in my direction before taking a deliberate sip, her stare never wavering. A challenge. An invitation.
I felt a smile tug at my lips. This wasn't just about the job anymore. There was something about her that pulled at me, a rawness, an authenticity that stood out in a room full of people playing parts. Which was rich coming from me, considering my entire life was a carefully constructed lie.
I straightened my jacket and finished my beer as I stood. Moving through the crowded room, navigating my way in her direction. Wren watched my approach, her expression giving away nothing. But her body language shifted slightly, angling toward me as I drew closer.
Game on.
I slid up to the bar beside her, careful to leave space but leaning close enough I could get a whiff of her heady scent.
Fuck me, if there wasn’t a hint of gasoline in her in her hair.
The bartender glanced over, and I held up two fingers.
"Whiskey. Two." I slid one toward Wren with practiced casualness.
"Figured you might want something stronger than water. "
Her eyes flicked from the glass to my face, studying me with the kind of sharp assessment that reminded me of Vittorio Luca's most seasoned enforcers. "You been watching what I drink?"
"Hard not to notice the only person drinking water." I shrugged, taking a sip of my own whiskey. "Last time I saw someone order water in a place like this, he got a face full from the tap.” I grinned, extending my hand. “Rocky."
"That a name or a description?" Her lips quirked, but she took my hand briefly before picking up the whiskey.
Her hand felt like fucking electricity. Small but calloused, a mechanic's grip with surprising strength.
The momentary contact sent a jolt straight through me that had me suppressing a groan.
She had a confidence in her touch that made my pulse quicken.
I hadn't expected such a physical reaction, that immediate response that went straight to my cock because I’d never had this strong a yearning for anything in my life like I did for Wren.
"Could be both." I grinned, leaning one elbow on the sticky bar top. "Depends who you ask."
"I'm asking you." She didn't smile exactly, but something in her expression softened fractionally.
"Name's Sylvester, but everyone calls me Rocky. And yes, it’s as bad as it sounds.” I grinned. "You got one? A name?"
"Wren." She knocked back half her whiskey in one go.
"Like the bird?"